


polaroids. (jacob seed)

by orphan_account



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Imprisonment, Love/Hate, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 09:57:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18519082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Just as it says on the tin, mate -  snapshots of our ginger mountain man and his homicidal pup when they may or may not be at each other’s throats (for more than one reason).





	1. “You will do what I ask.”

“You will do what I ask.”

Rook’s lips curl over her teeth in a snarl, but she can’t refuse. 

Pratt’s life hangs in the balance, precariously close to dangling off the edge, much like his sanity. 

Jacob hums, the edge of his blade running along the line of her jaw, tipping her chin up so that he could peer down into her eyes, a smug smirk mangling his mouth. 

“Knew we’d tame you somehow, pup. Didn’t think that weakling would have much of a purpose, but what do y’know? He works wonders without even being in the room.”


	2. Drop.

His voice does this thing where it just drops.

Not like a pen falling off the side of your desk or your phone tumbling out of your pocket. 

No, his voice drops like it's just done a swan dive off the edge of the Empire State Building. 

And for some reason, Rook’s the one who's left breathless. 

Like she’s the one who's just careened off the brink. 

Because her breathing hitches, her pulse thunders in her ears and her head swims like Michael-fucking-Phelps. 

And it's ridiculous. 

Because he hasn't done a damn thing. 

Except lower his voice. 

And he might as well have chained Rook to the spot, because she can't move a muscle. 

Not when he's staring her down with those piercing eyes. 

Not when his jaw is locked so tight that she thinks he’ll need a crowbar to pry it open. 

Not when his lips do part on their own accord, but the throaty words that leave them nearly send her into cardiac arrest.


	3. “It hurts me to see you like this, but you have to learn.”

“It hurts me to see you like this, but you have to learn.” 

“I don’t learn. One of my issues.” 

She’s lost too much weight, but she’s stubborn as a goddamn ox. 

Even when he does give her food, Rook refuses to eat it, rolls over to face the opposite side of the cage, feigns sleep. 

Where she used to give him snarky one-liners and sharp-toothed grins for his visits, Rook can barely raise her head to give him a strained, albeit coy, quirk of the lips.

That wouldn’t do. 

•

One day, when it’s pouring buckets in late November and her body is shivering from the lack of fat on her bones, from the deterioration of muscle, from the beginnings of hypothermia taking root in her fragile form, Jacob snaps.

He wrenches the cage door open, but the sound is either drowned out by the torrent of rain or she’s too exhausted to react.

Up until she isn’t, when he takes her in his arms - bridal-style - storms through the courtyard, ignoring the whimpers of fresh recruits and the snarling of Judges, his Chosen opening every door in his path until they’re in his room.

“T-this the last r-r-room I’ll ever s-see?” 

Rook chuckles weakly, the chattering of her teeth sapping the question dry of any humor.

Jacob doesn’t say anything, taking her to his bathroom, where he strips her - and himself - of her tattered, soaked clothing and turns on the shower, starts with cool water, will gradually increase to a temperature that could melt the skin off their bones once they’re inside. 

When he tugs at the hem of her shirt, Rook snarls, fighting him with what little strength was left after weeks of starving, fighting, culling - but her body doesn’t cooperate with her mind as her limbs fall limply to her sides.

Jacob doesn’t try anything in the shower — getting her warm was his first priority, cleaning her up, nice and proper, was the second, as he lathers shampoo in her hair and delicately washes her bruised, bony body with a plain bar of soap, watching as layers of mud and grime swirl down the drain, revealing the pale, sickly skin beneath.

Once Rook’s warm and clean, he shuts the water off and dries her off carefully but thoroughly, because the whole point of this shower was to keep her from getting sick. 

He wasn’t going to lose her to hypothermia from the air conditioning after a shower. 

Dressing Rook in his clothes triggers something within him, a beast that growls in vicious pleasure at the sight of her swallowed whole in a pair of his boxers, an old but clean t-shirt that hangs off her like a short dress.

There’s a steaming hot bowl of chicken broth at his desk, alongside a cup of ice chips and a cold glass of water.

He doesn’t ask her to follow, merely takes a seat and pats his lap without looking at her, stirring the broth idly with a spoon with his opposite hand.

When Rook doesn’t make a move, he sighs.

“Honey, your tenacity was adorable at first, but when it began to effect your physical health, I lost my patience. You don’t care about your own well-being, which is something I will not tolerate because you are the embodiment of strength. While you may not care about your life, you do care about Peaches’, don’t you?”

When that jaw clenches, steel returning to  
those dull eyes, he knows that he’s won.

For now. 

“As long as you obey me, pup - I’ll keep that weakling alive and unscathed. Physically, at least. However, if you refuse... Well, you’ve heard my speech about culling the herd enough times to recite it verbatim, haven’t you?”

He pats his thigh again, and Rook walks forward with determined, albeit shaky, steps, perching herself there with a tight jaw and clenched fists, but that wouldn’t do.

Jacob verbalizes as much when he sighs heavily and readjusts her accordingly, so that her thighs rest outside either side of his, straddling his waist, her hands coming up to his shoulders to catch herself from falling flat on her ass.

“There’s my girl,” Jacob praises, kissing her chin.

He feeds her the broth slowly, left hand holding the bowl, right hand balancing the spoon. 

Once there isn’t a drop left, he tips the glass to her chapped lips, lets Rook take slow, gradual sips so that her stomach isn’t overwhelmed, watches her throat with sharp eyes, licking his lips at the movement.

When he pulls out the ice chips, Rook’s eyes widen, just a fraction, and she licks her lips in anticipation.

“I want you healthy. I need you healthy. You are my perfect soldier. I will not tolerate weakness. Do you understand, pup? You have to take care of yourself. Until you regain your strength, well... I’ll just have to take care of you myself.” 

It’s only when the cup is empty, his fingers glimmering with stray drops of water from the melting ice chips, that Rook reacts.

Before he can wipe them clean with a napkin or plop them in his mouth, she takes his wrist in her hand delicately (likely from the lack of strength in her withered bones), tongue laving over his fingers, diving between the gaps of the digits, not once breaking eye-contact.

Jacob stifles a groan at the erotic display, but he doesn’t bother to hide his physical reaction, pushing his hips up to grind harshly against hers, inducing a cracked moan around his fingers, tingling with her arousal. 

“Beautiful,” Jacob murmurs, pulling out his fingers that are slick with saliva, replacing them with his mouth. 

He’s never tasted anything so sweet, so delicious, so undeniably his.


	4. “Louder.”

“Louder.”

Rook bites her lip to the point that it splits, gnaws at the inside of her cheek until iron floods her mouth, clenches her jaw so tight that there‘s a terribly high possibility that she’s chipped a tooth.

She doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of hearing her moan, but fuck — he is good at this.

He isn’t the type to tease — he’ll take his time breaking her apart, but it’s strategic, not a single action or movement that isn’t absolutely necessary for her to shatter beneath him, crumble to pieces in his arms, trembling from the aftershocks as he murmurs praise in her ear, barely comprehensible through the blood that’s roaring through them, as intelligible words are reduced to primal groans and snarls as he chases after his own release.

This time won’t be so easy.

Least, that’s what Rook told herself.

Until her vow of silence is broken the second his canines pierce into the juncture of her neck and shoulder, hard enough that blood leaks around his sunken fangs, that a hoarse, wrecked howl is torn from Rook’s throat.

“Perfect...” Jacob murmurs, lazily chasing after the stray drops that roll down her chest, lips stained red, eyes piercingly blue. 

Rook can’t find it in her to be angry at his praise.

Because she can’t deny how satisfying it is.


	5. “Come sit on my lap.”

“Come sit on my lap.”

That voice - deep, raspy, authoritative - never fails to evoke something within Rook that she didn’t know she was capable of feeling outside of carnal pleasures, as his brother so eloquently describes it.

Lust. 

Rook lusts after praise, approval, validation. 

From Jacob-fucking-Seed. 

Because he knows how ugly the world is, he’s seen it up-close and personal, has the scars across his face, chest and arms as evidence of gruesome wars and endless bloodshed, knows true strength when he sees it, doesn’t hand out compliments or mince words or give praise out like candy.

But he sees something in Rook, something that has him giving her honeyed words, sweet promises, sugary hums of delight. 

Rook and Jacob are alike in more ways than one, different in just as many, and she can’t deny that she wants every part of him. 

Exactly how is up for thoughtful debate.

But one thing Rook can say with absolute certainty is that she wants his praise, his approval, to make him proud.

So Rook walks over to him, barefoot, wearing nothing but a pair of his boxers and one of his shirts - which fits her so loosely that it’s like wearing a dress - and perches herself in his lap, his large, rough hands hiking her legs around his waist, so she’s straddling him.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, rubbing circles against the exposed skin of Rook’s legs with his thumbs, slowly but attentively, studying her expressions as they gravitate from her outer thighs to her inner thighs, how her breath stutters in her lungs when they brush against her - his - boxers.

“I am so proud of you,” he says, and it’s genuine, it’s the praise that makes Rook’s body hum and her nerve endings sing and her brain flood with thoughts of ‘I can do better, I can be better, I will be better—‘

Rook doesn’t realize that she’s said this aloud until he’s tracing the swell of her bottom lip with a thick, calloused thumb and replacing the digit with his mouth, humming as her mouth goes pliant beneath his.

“You are my perfect soldier. Better than anything I could have imagined, thought of, dreamed of. You know I ain’t one for that sappy shit, but you are my fucking pride and joy, baby girl.” 

These words and these words alone make Rook’s blood fucking sing in her veins, blood that boils into searing, unadulterated need when Jacob tilts her head and kisses her hard enough that her lips bruise.

She gives as good as she gets, splitting his lip, lapping at the blood, grinding their hips together.

Jacob smiles.


	6. “Sweetheart, I have to mark you. How else is everyone gonna know you’re mine?”

“Sweetheart, I have to mark you. How else is everyone gonna know you’re mine?”

“Does the ring of hickies not do a good job?” Rook asks, because she can feel them imprinted on her skin, down the slope of her throat, around the base of her collarbone.

It’ll take days for them to fade.

Rook’s far from complaining.

Though there is a cause of alarm when she realizes he hasn’t stopped fiddling with his knife. 

But it isn’t his trademark Bowie knife, so things could be worse.

This is the smaller, more intimate switchblade that he fiddles with absentmindedly - doing nifty tricks without thinking about them (though he started doing them more often when Rook had mentioned how badass it looks), Jacob Seed’s version of a fidget spinner, rarely brings it out unless he‘s having difficulty keeping his mind focused on a task or is looking for precision, as opposed to the perfect aesthetic for inducing fear or flawlessly gutting something, someone, like a fisherman with his haul, a hunter with his game. 

“... Just don’t carve any sins. I don’t mean to be an asshole, but Johnny B. Goode and Cotton-Eyed Joe went overboard with ‘em.”

Rook winces more at the prospect of those than the notion of him carving into her flesh.

John’s been wanting to do so - the tattoo gun hadn’t been enough, he’s been itching to carve her sins into her with his little pocketknife, possibly one of the many scalpels she’d caught a glimpse of on his ‘fun’ tray back in his bunker - and she’s seen the handiwork across his chest. 

Rook isn’t particularly thrilled about that idea, which is one reason why she’s lingered in The Whitetails for far longer than she originally anticipated. 

Another is because, one way or another, she is fascinated by Jacob Seed and is more than fine with staying by his side, being his little toy soldier, as long as he doesn’t touch Eli or his Whitetails.

For fuck’s sake, Rook and Jacob had shook hands on it. And he didn’t strike her as the type to break something like that, whereas John would’ve created fine print that she never could’ve conceived or deciphered and Faith’s scenario would’ve been nothing but a hallucination in the Bliss, but just as damning. 

As for Joseph, Rook doesn’t see herself lasting longer than five minutes at one of his forsaken sermon’s before blowing her brains out to end her suffering and boredom. 

Jacob snorts, a sound that’d once been condescending now registering as an attempt at a laugh. 

Rook’s earned a few hearty, authentic chuckles out of him, and she is determined to make him laugh as often as she can. 

With their twisted, macabre senses of humor, it isn’t all that difficult. 

But one of Rook’s proudest achievements - in her whole life - was procuring a hearty, belly-deep, wheezing laugh from this sadistic bastard with a joke so offensive that people had been arrested for so much as talking about it in Europe.

“Like I’d ever sink that low. You’re mine, baby girl. I’d never damage what belongs to me.” 

These words are enunciated with the flick of the blade, and Rook can’t hide the shudder that ripples down her spine at the sound. 

•

J. SEED is carved into the skin below Rook’s right collarbone, identical to the embroidering on his jacket, right down to the font and size. 

Like he’s wanted to do this for weeks and has been practicing for just as long.

Rook doesn’t think about how many test subjects he practiced on. Or what he carved into them, because there’s no way he’d carve his own name into something (someone) and toss it away like nothing. 

Once Jacob Seed has claimed something, it is his and he will never let it go. 

Rook doesn’t make a sound through the whole thing, aside from the occasional sharp intake of breath or hiss through grit teeth. 

Up until she can’t shake the feeling that she’s a juicy cut of venison being prepared for dinner.

“Out of all the siblings, I didn’t peg you as the one who’d end-up carving me.” 

“Is that right?”

Rook shrugs with the opposite shoulder, so that it doesn’t interfere with his work, doesn’t disturb his concentration, because if he made a mistake, it’s not like he can erase it and start-over.

“Figured you’d stick to the psychological aspect. Faith’s is a bad trip that turns into an eternal nightmare with the worst fucking hallucinogenics to deface this earth. Joseph’s is an existential crisis and religious roulette. John’s is... Well, really - this feels more like John’s M.O.”

“Hmph.” 

Rook doesn’t have to point to the WRATH tattoo that stains the skin above her left collarbone, the PRIDE tattoo above her right collarbone, just above where Jacob is carving (she wonders how the two pieces will contrast - or complement - each other when he’s done), the GREED and GLUTTONY that circle her forearms like bracelets, the LUST that curls around her navel and hips like a belt. 

Rook wonders what John’s reaction will be when he finds out that his eldest brother had done what he’s been wanting to do for weeks. 

Because the ink of a tattoo could be removed, but the carving from a knife was a bit more permanent. 

Rook’s thoughts are eerily calm while Jacob cuts into her like a Thanksgiving turkey.

“What’s wrong, pup? Lose your tongue?”

“Figured you’d want absolute silence to concentrate on your handiwork.”

“Because you’re always so generous whenever I’m doing literally anything else.”

Rook grins at him, and he does his damndest not to smile, but she can see it poking at the recesses of his beard.

“I’ll kiss away the pain, doll,” Jacob murmurs, a rough whisper, as he finishes the last letter with a steady hand, lapping up the blood that’s streaking down her chest, his lips treading carefully over the freshly carved skin.

Rook’s fingers tighten in his hair, a hiss caged between her teeth when his lips become firm against the cuts, when his tongue delves into the shallow wounds.

“Didn’t think of you as the possessive type, boss. Been expecting you to hurl my carcass off the mountain when you get bored with me. But when the weeks passed and you pulled me out of the cage, let me sleep with you in the sinful and biblical sense, well... I figured you kept me around for something. More than the trials and training.” 

There’s a pause. 

One, two, three... 

A minute passes before Jacob speaks.

“I’ve kept you around because you’re mine, Rook. You belong to me... And I belong to you.”


	7. “I fucking need you more than I have to breathe.”

“I fucking need you more than I have to breathe.” 

Rook doesn’t know what to say to that.

What can she say to that?

She can’t say the truth, she can’t tell him how she really feels, because this whole thing is just a test, isn’t it?

To see how weak she is, to use this against her, to highlight the fact that her weakness isn’t physical but mental, emotional, and that is so much worse. 

Rook knows that it isn’t Stockholm Syndrome because she isn’t touch-starved for his calloused hands, she doesn’t cling to him when he walks in the room, she doesn’t mourn for him when he leaves.

She can’t name it because she’s never felt it, but it feels an awful lot like...

Rook takes his face in her hands, cradling scarred cheeks with delicate fingers, watch as his eyes close at the touch, his hands taking her wrists and holding them in place.

When Rook kisses him, that’s when the facade shatters. 

The tension in his shoulders fades, the strain in his muscles dissipates and the fear in his bones evaporates. 

She never was an eloquent person, prays to any and every deity that she doesn’t believe in that this conveys every feeling he evokes from her. 

Because three little measly words didn’t cut what Rook feels for him, but she’d spend the rest of whatever’s left finding the words that would. 

Jacob hoists her into his arms, easy as you please, more than satisfied by her response, fucking elated.

He splays Rook across his bed, takes his sweet time stretching her, brings her over the edge with his mouth and fingers over and over and o v e r, her body shivering, oversensitive, but craving more, everything he has to offer, anything he’ll give her.


	8. “Don’t stop.”

“Don’t stop.” 

Rook hates to say it, but it’s a plea, close to begging, tearing out of her throat in a pitiful gasp. 

“Can’t refuse you anything, doll,” he murmurs against her thigh, leaving a few bruising bites and wet kisses to the sensitive flesh before he makes his way up her body, lips blazing a trail from her navel to her jaw, kissing her full on the mouth, prying her lips open and spilling her taste into her mouth.

Rook moans against his lips, fingers sinking into the material of his jacket, tugging him as close as she can, wanting to feel every inch of him against her, caging her against the mattress. 

Jacob acquiesces without a grain of hesitation, his body covering hers, grinding his hips down against Rook’s, a hiss leaving her mouth while a snarl echoes in his throat. 

“Take this off, c’mon,” she breathes, tugging at the lapels of his jacket.

Rook sees the hesitation in his eyes, the reluctance at shedding the only thing hiding his scars and burns, but she wants to see him.

All of him.

“God, Jake - you’re fucking gorgeous.”

Rook’s fingers wander from the burns along his arms to the scar tissue across the broad expanse of his chest to the starbursts of gunshot wounds dotting his stomach. 

Jacob gets flustered whenever Rook uses pet names or compliments him - she only says them in private, because she had a feeling that if she said them in public, in front of his soldiers, one of them might crack a harmless joke, ending up in Jacob cracking his spine.

And Rook’s sort-of starting to bond with Jacob’s Chosen, so it’d be a shame to inadvertently cause one of their deaths.

But here, when it’s just the two of them, The Soldier and The Spartan, Jacob and Rook - she wants to tell him how handsome, beautiful, perfect he is until her throat bleeds, until he doesn’t brush off her words with a scoff and a ducked head, until he believes she’s telling him the god-honest truth. 

Because she is.

And she’ll spend the rest of whatever’s left of this lifetime trying to get it through his thick skull until he realizes she’s never been more sincere, adamant, honest in her life.


End file.
